Give me oxygen

 My car thermometer registered 102 degrees when I arrived at the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor's Center in Lone Pine. A furnace wind whipped through the air as a motorcyclist pulled in beside me. His face and helmet were coated in ochre dust that was streaked with sweat, and he was wearing a leather jacket despite the heat. He told me he just rode in from Death Valley, where the mercury topped 120.

"Wow, I've only been to Death Valley in January," I said. "I should head out there just to see what it's like."

"Are you going that direction?" he asked.

"No, I'm here to get a permit for Mount Whitney," I said. "I'm hiking there tomorrow."

"In one day?"

"Yeah."

"Have you heard of that race where people run from the bottom of Death Valley to the top of Mount Whitney in a day?" he asked.

I laughed. "You mean Badwater?" I found it humorous that this random motorcyclist had heard of this esoteric 135-mile ultramarathon. "Yeah, I've heard of it. That's too hellish for my taste. I'm only interested in the last 11 miles on trail, which I get to climb tomorrow. I'm excited."

"I wouldn't even want to do that," he said. "It's cold in the mountains. I'm all for the desert, love the heat, even when it's 120. But a couple years ago I was driving through when those Badwater people were running. And I just thought, damn. Yeah, that's what I thought. Damn."

 Damn indeed. I'm endlessly intrigued by the world's extremes, even the scorched desert, although it frightens me even more than deep-frozen tundra. In a way, this fear makes the desert all the more alluring. After the motorcyclist left, I collected my Whitney permit and mulled what I wanted to do with the afternoon. Should I head out to the sun-baked lowlands of Death Valley, or stick with my original plan of another acclimation hike? I was genuinely torn. But I just didn't have time to do it all, and this short trip was about mountains. I purchased a map at the visitors center and studied nearby options. There was a trailhead right at the campground where I was planning to stay called Meysan Lakes, which climbed the next major drainage over from Mount Whitney. Perfect.

 Despite its proximity to Whitney Portal, the Meysan Lakes trail was almost deserted. I only saw two other hikers, both solo like me. The first was an older gentleman who lectured me for starting so late in the day, for wearing "sneakers," and for not carrying bear spray. He told me to watch out for a European man who was farther up the trail, and who would surely be half-dead when I came across him because, "He has no shirt, no hat, and he's not carrying any water."

"Perhaps he's drinking out of the streams," I said. "They do that in Europe."

The older gentleman just shook his head. "I can't believe how far up the trail he made it. I'm worried about him." A few miles later, I crossed paths with the European man, who I think might have been German. He was indeed shirtless, deeply tanned, not carrying a single bottle or backpack, and looked as happy as can be.

"Hallo," he said after I greeted him. "Is very nice, beautiful here."

Indeed.

 The Meysan Lakes Trail had a consistently steep grade, and since it started at 7,500 feet, I couldn't process enough oxygen to run. Still, my hope was to hike up and run down, which was about the pace I'd need to keep in order to reach the upper lake and make it back to the campground by sundown. The European man was right about the beauty of the canyon, surrounded by sheer granite walls and filled with bright wildflowers. It's still spring up here, and early spring at that. Even at 102 degrees in Lone Pine, the weather was great above 10,000 feet — low 70s, calm breeze, and sunshine.

 I scrambled to the upper lake, which filled an entire basin at 11,400 feet. There was a lot less snow than I expected, almost none, and I wished I had the forethought to bring overnight gear with me and allot an extra day. I felt so comfortable that I wished I could stay for a long while — on this windswept moonscape of crumbling granite, devoid of habitable terrain, and barren except for the icy water of a snowmelt lake. And yet, I felt content. What is it that's so endlessly intriguing about these extremes?

 What was left of the faint trail technically ended at the lake, and even though the sun was drifting lower on the horizon, the allure of extremes tempted me higher. I scanned the ridge for weaknesses that would allow easy passage for a clumsy solo hiker like myself, and found what looked like a ramp cut into the cliffs. As I approached it, I saw tracks in the talus that did not look like human tracks. They were too small and close together, and I wondered if I had found a goat trail. I followed the tracks, which turned out to be the perfect route to the ridge. Not harrowing at all. Thanks, goats.

I reached the ridge at an elevation of 12,300 feet, next to two peaks that definitely looked like the domain of more sure-footed mountaineers than I. Plus, it was getting late — and yet the forces of desire pulled at me to climb higher. The wind was fierce now, and noticeably cold. From my perch I could still see the 100-degree valley 9,000 feet below, bordered by the red Inyo Mountains, and beyond that the scorched desert. I pulled a jacket out of my pack to stave off shivering and gazed at the unknown peaks above me, wishing I was a climber.

 Still, the ridge afforded a stunning vista of Mount Whitney, with its steep and intimidating east face. It was also a sobering view of just how far I'd have to climb the following day.

 Looking back on the Lone Pine Valley and the approach to Mount Whitney. My lungs burned as I breathed the sharp wind, and for the first time I noticed that I was struggling with the altitude — which was encouraging, because I was already above 12,000 feet.

As soon as I descended the talus, boulders and more technical trail from the ridge to the lower lake, I tried running. My legs were strong and it felt great to move quickly down the trail, even though the downhill exertion necessitated gasping breaths. I finished with 45 minutes of daylight to spare, 12.5 miles and 4,900 feet of climbing — just a little warm-up hike. My lungs were burning. I set up my tent at the campground, altitude 7,700, and hoped I'd be able to get some sleep. 

Take me higher

Why is elevation so alluring? What is it about a distressing lack of oxygen, cold temperatures, rugged terrain, high winds, and harsh exposure that continually lure me to higher heights? I'm not even a rock climber and likely will never try to become one (too klutzy, oh so klutzy.) But like John Muir who once traveled these same granite mounds, the mountains are calling — and I must go.

Earlier this week, I went in search of ideas for two to three days of trail running possibilities around the Yosemite Valley, and stumbled across an open permit for Mount Whitney — a broad mountain that reigns over a beautiful cathedral of granite spires, and also happens to be the highest point in the Lower 48 United States. It was the sole Whitney opening in the entire month of June, a single day permit for June 19. Too serendipitous to bypass, I grabbed it and began scheming an acclimating/hiking trip instead.

I've been to Mount Whitney, elevation 14,505, once before, way back in 2001. That's also the only time I've been above 14,000 feet in my life — and I remember it being a harsh struggle, back when I lived at 4,500 feet in Salt Lake City. Now I live next to the ocean and know of other sea level dwellers who have developed high altitude pulmonary edema as low as 11,000 feet when ascending too quickly. I wanted to be cautious about the altitude and do a bit of acclimating on the way to the Eastern Sierras. Luckily, Yosemite National Park is right on route. On Sunday afternoon, I took on the climb to Clouds Rest. From the Sunrise trailhead on Highway 120, there's only about 3,500 feet of climbing in 15 rolling miles, and my plan was to run the runnable portions of trail. However, starting my run at 8,000 feet proved to be even tougher than I anticipated. I was sucking wind before the first quarter mile. After pushing hard for two miles I took much-needed "picture break," only to realize that I left the camera's battery plugged into its charger at home, 200 miles away. There was a spare camera in my car, but retrieving it necessitated four bonus miles. I debated it for a while but finally decided it was too beautiful of a day for no picture taking. I ran the two miles back and after that felt pretty deflated. It's interesting how quickly elevation can strip away my delusions of fitness — those four relatively flat miles could have easily done it for me in terms of perceived exertion. I knew I had 15 more miles in me, but it was getting to the point where limited daylight necessitated a continued strong pace.

I continued the attempted running until I surpassed 9,000 feet; then every breath felt like dragging a grater across my lungs. A pace I view as easy-going jogging at sea level just wasn't achievable for me at this elevation. Even hiking was extra tough. What that foretold for 14,000 feet in a day and a half, I tried not to imagine. I plodded to the top of Cloud's Rest, elevation 9,931 feet, and immediately lost all regret I had been feeling about my four-mile bonus camera run. It was a hazy day, but I still had great views of the Yosemite Valley, Glacier Point and Half Dome.

On the left is the area where I started running, Tenaya Lake, and a broad view of the eastern Sierras. As much as I love ascending to the top of mountains, my heart breaks every time I do so. From these heights I can see the true reach of places I will never experience, and realize just how insignificant of a bystander I am in this expansive world.

I ended with 19 miles in 5.5 hours, with about a half hour on the peak. But I had to work hard to average those 15-minute miles. I finished up about an hour before sunset and started driving east and south toward Lone Pine, in a slim valley wedged between the High Sierras and the low basins of Death Valley. I enjoy taking solo drives through scenic places, and the route from Yosemite to Lone Pine was one of the better drives I've had in a long time. This is Tuolume Meadows, a place where several long trails link together. Yosemite National Park is a trail runner's paradise, with an expansive network of runnable, scenic routes that stretch out for dozens and even hundreds of miles (John Muir Trail, Pacific Crest Trail.) I'm developing more interest in linking up these long routes someday.

I stopped for a restroom break at this stream near Tioga Lake. An outhouse with a view.

Ellery Lake.

Highway 120 at Tioga Pass.

Waterfall near Tioga Pass.

Descending Deadman Pass, this was the view from my dash of the Eastern Sierras — the drier and in my opinion more stunning side of this mountain range. My destination for the night was the unspectacular town of Bishop, elevation 4,200, because Lone Pine was still hours away and I wanted a little time at lower elevation to recover from my high-altitude Yosemite run. I had one more day to acclimate and I was almost as excited about the possibilities as I was about my Mount Whitney permit. 

By the numbers

On Friday, Jan and I set out for an afternoon ride through the enchanted woods, also known as Forest of the Nisene Marks. Jan wanted a much-needed break from his job search and was looking for some solid hours on the bike. I'm always game for adventure but in order to agree to a five-hour ride, I needed to disclose my growing list of disclaimers: Hamstrings tight; Calves still cramping; Tired and prone to timidity; May walk the steeper hills. We logged 13 miles and 3,200 feet of climbing on the Aptos Creek Fire Road before launching into the technical singletrack of Soquel Demonstration Forest for an eight-mile loop with 2,000 feet of heart-pounding descents and climbs.

We decided to climb back to Aptos Creek on a trail rather than take the long road around, which nearly proved to be my undoing. Grades that were sphincter-clenching during descents proved to be nearly unclimbable for my weakling legs. I mashed the granny gear until my hammies bunched into tight knots, then used a kind of sidestep to drag my bike up walls of loose dirt. When I arrived at the top Jan was drenched in sweat but had a cool smile on his face, satisfied with the hard effort. "Is running ruining your biking legs?" he joked.

"Well, actually, yes. Yes it is." Recovery from the Laurel Highlands Ultra aside, I really do feel weaker on my bike even as I become progressively stronger on foot. Maybe it's because lately I've been using cycling mainly as a recovery and recreation activity, and haven't been pushing myself as hard. Either way, my legs felt more sore after Jan's and my little mountain bike ride than they did after nineteen hours of pounding in Pennsylvania. I went for short run today in 100-degree heat (okay, okay, I waited until 7:30 p.m. when the fierce sun had drifted behind enough haze to drop temps into the low 90s) in hopes of loosening them up. My hamstrings and calves actually feel better now that they've had a little run time. I'm not sure how I feel about this development of becoming a stronger runner at the expense of having enough power left over to hang with my cycling friends. Honestly, it's a little discouraging.

Yeah, we both went around the jump. Next time. Ha!

But the actual thing I wanted to post about today was the one-anniversary of my book release. "Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide" officially came out on June 15, 2011. This week I worked on tracking down as many numbers as I could in hopes of figuring out how many copies have sold. It's stretched out over a wide string of distribution channels and it's almost impossible for me to track down all of them. But what I found was encouraging. In its first year, this book sold at least 683 paperbacks and 2,840 eBooks for a total of 3,523 sales. Modest numbers for sure, but not bad for a self-published title in which nearly all of the profit goes to me. I wanted to say thanks to anyone who has purchased the book, for making this first year a good one. And if you have any opinion about it, I always appreciate the posting of reviews.

It's understandably a question I get all of the time: What are you working on now? Someday soon I plan to write a post delving into this more, but the quick answer is, "A lot of different things, but not making as much progress on any of them as I'd like." From this blog, it probably seems like I spend all of my time biking, running and traveling. But really there are still plenty of hours in the day to work, and I often don't make the best use of all of them. I'm still working on several book projects. My idea of a small independent publishing group has yet to spark, but interest has resulted in a few editing jobs (and I'm working on landing more of those.) I'm very close to releasing a blog compilation of essays from the past seven years, with added commentary to tie it all together. I still write the occasional short article here and there, and right now am pursuing more copy writing gigs to pass the time while I wallow in bouts of writer's block.

But things are clicking along. My main goal right now is creating more books; even if they're not as successful, ultimately I believe the work will pay off. I have to say, I do love having the salmon wheel that is Amazon.com out scooping up fish and keeping me in grocery funds while I indulge in five-hour bike rides. Life is good right now, even though my bike legs are weak and slow. Beat is in Zurich on business for a week and I'm hoping to head to the Sierras for a couple of days of solid UTMB practice. The main reason I signed up for a crazy race like UTMB is because the training gives me excuse to pursue one of my favorite things in the world ... climbing big mountains. And the best part is, right now, my legs are good at that. 

Because it's beautiful, that's why

Ultrarunning is an eccentric sport, so it makes sense that people have their own eccentric reasons for getting into it. I was exposed to this community for years before I developed any interest in participating. My first glimmer of intrigue sparked about three years ago, when I was traversing Heinzelman Ridge in Juneau. From a high point I could see mountain ridges rippling like waves across the Juneau Ice Field — all of these mountains I wanted to visit but would never be able to reach in a day. For my own reasons — bears, wolves, unpredictable weather, and the potential onset of disorienting fog overnight — I didn't want to attempt solo backpacking trips in the alpine of Southeast Alaska. But if I had the ability to move faster, I realized, the possibilities would be greater. The more efficient my steps became, the more mountains I could visit. Distance — not speed — was my overlying motivation to become "a runner."

Ultra-racing is a fun and challenging way to develop distance skills, and the Laurel Highlands Ultra was an ideal test. The 70.5-mile race traverses the entire distance of the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail in southwestern Pennsylvania. The race launched in 1979 when two brothers set out to see how far they could get in a day. The following year, seven people showed up for the challenge, and a tradition was born. The current race directors, Iditarod veterans Tim Hewitt and Rick Freeman, invited Beat to come out to Pennsylvania and run their race. Beat in turn convinced me that the Laurel Highlands Ultra would be a good shakedown run for UTMB. I also liked the idea of a point-to-point course — 70 miles is a decent amount of ground to cover in a day, and I expected a scenic tour of one of the more remote regions of the eastern United States. Just a few years ago, seventy miles was well beyond my scope of what I could cover on foot in one day. Laurel Highlands was an opportunity to see how far I've come.

Of course, by race morning, I was less than enthused about all of it. We flew into Pittsburgh in the early morning hours on Friday, slept hardly at all, spent the rest of the day socializing and prepping, finally made our way home around 11 p.m., and then set our alarm for 3 a.m. Saturday so we could travel to the start with the race directors. Still operating in Pacific time, I groaned to Beat, "Why do we have to wake up at midnight to run on rocks and roots?" Beat pointed out that a few days worth of sleep deprivation and jet lag was also good training for UTMB. True, true.

About 130 racers were gathered for the dawn start of the seventy-mile race, which began at the parking lot of a small park and quickly funneled onto the narrow singletrack at mile zero of the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail. Beat had hurt his hip the weekend before during the Diablo 60K, and the injury was still causing him quite a bit of pain. Before the race, he taped his hip extensively with kinesio tape, but he was noticeably limping in the first mile. I think he only bothered to start the race because we had already made all these arrangements to travel to Pennsylvania, not to mention self-imposed peer pressure from his friends. Beat promised he would drop at the first signs of real trouble, but I doubted this was going to happen. We ran together for the first eight miles, following the racer conga line up the rocky trail. As soon as the pack began to break up, I surged ahead. At the first aid station, mile 11, I waited for five or so minutes before deciding that Beat would likely catch me soon if he didn't drop. And if he was contemplating quitting, he probably didn't want me around to try to talk him into it.

The Laurel Highlands are the remnants of some old and crumbling mountains, leaving behind piles of massive boulders that the trail often wove through like a maze. The mountains themselves are actually the highest in Pennsylvania, and the high point on the trail is close to 3,000 feet. Though the giant rock gardens were my favorite aspect of the route, I'm a vista person at heart, and I was constantly scanning for spots to break out of the forest. I admit I wandered off the trail and onto the rocks once or twice in hopes of catching a glimpse of the Youghiogheny River or even downtown Pittsburgh, which I'm told can be seen across fifty-odd miles of mostly open green space. At one point I broke off from a small group I had been running with to locate the vista in the picture above this one, and then sped up to catch them again. "Stop and smell the roses type?" an older man asked as I passed. "Yup," I replied. "This is my motivation. I wouldn't be out here otherwise."

I passed the 50K mark while running with a friend of my friends Leslie and Keith, Kendra. We never got around to talking about just how small of a world this ultrarunning community is, but we did joke about veering toward the 31-mile finish and pretending we thought we entered the 50K all along. For me these were hollow words, because I was actually feeling pretty good. All the miles beyond 31 were mostly unknown territory for me, but I was consciously working on staying "light as a feather" in order to avoid pounding my feet while still lifting them enough to stay off the rocks. But by mile 40 I was beginning to regularly fail at this goal, stumbling more frequently until I finally took my first crashing blow into the rocks, hitting my left shoulder hard. This made me angry and I got up and started sprinting, trying to race off the pain that was coursing through my arm. I noticed I actually balanced much better when I moved faster, but I could hardly keep up that speed for thirty more miles. I vowed to pull out my trekking poles at the next aid station.

I had been aiming to hit the fifty-mile marker at twelve hours and was convinced I had it as late as mile 40. But the rocky section where I crashed slowed me down substantially, and I actually hit mile 50 closer to thirteen hours into the race. The Laurel Highlands Trail is marked with mile posts for the entire distance. Some runners find these marks of (slow) progress annoying, but I use GPS anyway so they mostly just gave me something to look forward to. At the mile 46 checkpoint, Tim gave me Beat's status — still in the race, about a half hour behind. I grabbed my trekking poles and began the long climb from a lower point on the course back to the 3,000-foot range.

Over the course of the race I had been eating what I might call a "50K diet" — mainly sugar, with salt tabs, and less than a hundred calories per hour on average. This works fine for me for seven hours or so, but by hour twelve I could feel the all-too-familiar onset of a bonk. In luckier situations, bonking simply means an energy hole that is relatively easy to dig out of. But a combination of the intensity of the effort, warm temperatures (mid-80s with high humidity), and mild dehydration sent my stomach into revolt and I couldn't put more calories down without heavy consequences. In less than two miles I went from feeling great to using every ounce of my diminishing willpower to avoid laying down in oh-so-soft-looking beds of ferns. Nausea wracked my stomach until I gave into vomiting, which made my gut feel marginally better but my head about ten times worse. I slowed to a near-crawl. There were definitely some 25-minute miles in that section, even after I finished the climb and re-entered the rolling terrain of the high ridge. I felt horrible, but strangely, I wasn't upset about it. The sun was drifting low in the sky beyond the canopy of trees, casting rich light and stark shadows across the carpets of ferns. Laurel bushes in peak bloom lined the narrow trail, creating purple-and-white walls of blossoms. The earthy sweet aroma probably would have been wonderful if I wasn't so nauseated, but even still it wasn't terrible. I could walk it off, I told myself, and in the meantime I felt entertainingly loopy, almost high.

But beauty can only sustain a poor physical state for so long. I slouched into the 57-mile checkpoint feeling so depleted that if I had been attempting a hundred-miler, I would have given strong consideration to dropping. Even with just a measly half marathon left, I still found it difficult to contemplate the miles ahead. I held onto Beat's sage advice for all similar ultra situations — "It will get better, before it gets worse, but then it gets better again. It always does." I forced down a cup of ramen soup, which proved to be my rapid turning point. Before I even left the aid station I was feeling okay enough to eat a few cookies and several cups of iced ginger ale. Darkness was settling in, so I switched on my headlamp and set into the final stretch a renewed runner — well, at least I was running again.

At mile 61 we hit the sole stretch of road on the course, about three-quarters of a mile of gravel. I was really excited to see this short section of easy travel, as I was becoming weary of stumbling on rocks. But sure enough, it only took about a quarter mile of unrealized tedium before I was struggling with the sleep monster. Funny how that happens. I slowed to a walk and occupied myself by shuffling through the screens on my Garmin eTrex ... smiling at the 14,000 feet of climbing it had registered so far and zooming out on the map to see just how far I had traveled, on a wrinkled line drawn over an impressive swath of southwestern Pennsylvania. At the top of the road was the last aid station, and I had no energy so I ate some more soup and wasted a little more time. Turnaround number two came, along with the resolve to run, the conquering of the rocky descent, and feeling the best that I had felt, arguably, all day long. (The race started so early that I did not feel awake until 9 a.m. Pacific time, which was nearly 25 miles into the race, and by then I had, well, 25 miles under my feet.) I can honestly say I enjoyed every minute of those last eight miles to the mile 70 marker, and finished feeling strong. Which, for my own eccentric reasons, is the ideal way to finish a race. I don't do this kind of thing to empty my tank ... I do it to feel full.

Rick handed me my trophy, an impressive mahogany replica of a trail marker with the number 70 inscribed in the wood. He said they'd mail me a plaque with my finishing time, 19:01. It was well ahead of my goal and good enough to be respectably midpack — 46th of 130 starters and 85 finishers, and 10th of 17 women. Beat limped into the finish at 20:27, having endured his hip pain that entire time. He had an experienced friend help him diagnose the injury today — tightness and strain in several muscles in and around his glutes. It sounded miserable and I think Beat ground it out only because he has so much respect and admiration for Tim that he didn't want to disappoint him ... awww.

My shoulder, which started to feel better after I began using my poles, is still a bit sore. I also have been feeling under the weather, which is more likely a result of travel-induced insomnia than running. Otherwise, I don't feel worse for the wear, and don't think it could have gone a whole lot better given my limited experiences with longer distances.

Plus, the Laurel Highlands are intensely beautiful. Experiencing the entire trail in a day amid the challenges and endorphins of long-distance running was all the more rewarding. For me, those are the best reasons to run the Laurel Highlands Ultra — cool trophies aside.

Awake among the laurels

I've hardly slept in three days. There were captured naps ... five minutes here, ninety minutes there. But eastern time has not been kind to me ... my natural bedtime occurs just before sunrise. Combined with a tight flight schedule, a predawn race start, nighttime heat, and a serious case of the jimmy legs, the relief of unconsciousness has eluded me. Now on the third night I've finally surpassed fatigue and entered that waking dream state, where everything takes place behind a white veil and a few clicks off real time. It's a beautiful place, steeped in nostalgia.

We entered Pennsylvania by way of Pittsburgh. It was well after midnight in this region. This is the first time I've been east of the Mississippi in nearly ten years, and I forgot that it's kind of different out here. The freeways aren't so overbuilt. You have to dig deep into some winding country roads to get anywhere, even near cities. Farmhouses built in the 1860s are places where people live, not historic landmarks. And the hills. Oh, the hills. As we drove through the empty streets, I imagined myself back on a loaded touring bicycle, circa 2003. "I rode so many hills just like these," I told Beat. "We crossed the state line just a little north of Pittsburgh and then veered north into the Alleghenies. The Rocky Mountains were a piece of cake compared to this region. The overall elevation gains are smaller so they don't bother with switchbacks. It felt like 15 percent grades were the norm."

I didn't recognize the race directors right away, even though I've looked them both in the eyes during one of the darker moments in my life. People really do look markedly different when they're rested, clean, wearing fewer layers, and projecting an air of excitement instead of pity. Tim Hewitt looked outright strange in a cotton T-shirt and khaki shorts, and Rick Freeman was way more exuberant  than I remembered. The last time I saw them was at Yentna Station, Alaska, during the 2009 Iditarod, when I dropped out of the race with frostbite. Man, was that a depressing morning. Tim's voice of wisdom is still burned in my consciousness, and thanks to the trials of the 2012 Iditarod, he bonded with Beat as well. It felt like a little life victory to meet again under much more pleasant circumstances, surrounded by the brilliant greens of Pennsylvania hill country in the summertime, and Tim joking lightheartedly about the insanity he's experienced during his six walks to Nome. In the background, there was the nervous matter of that little 70-mile race Tim and Rick invited us to run. The Laurel Highlands Ultra. Oh, that.

This may enter my memory as my favorite running experience yet — the last eight miles of that brutal trail. There were rocks, so many rocks. I shuffled over them, stubbed my toes on them, rolled my ankles around them, tripped over them, vomited on them. The race had its expected ups and downs, and by mile 62 I was hunkered down at the last aid station, savoring a bowl of potato soup and contemplating the long descent in front of me. I wasted as much time as I could sipping ginger ale, changing the batteries in my headlight, and even arranging my pack before I returned to the now-total darkness of the forest canopy. The thing I wanted most in the world was sleep, and the only thing that was going to get me there were my aching feet. The only thing in my way seemed nearly insurmountable at the time — eight miles of rolling, rocky descending, which I suck at even when I'm fresh and strong. But when I have 100 kilometers behind me and the better part of 48 hours without sleep, at least I become a little more fearless. I pulled out the trekking poles I brought as climbing aids and thought — "Screw it. I'm going to run."

It took a few hundred yards of shuffling to work past the aches in my feet and knees, but soon I started charging down the trail, planting my poles for balance and sometimes outright vaulting over boulders. The movements somehow fell into place; I was dancing across the rocks, inexplicably without planting my face into the trail, and the motion felt amazing. I imagined myself as a mountain goat, using my four legs to float down impossible terrain. Exuberance translated to energy, the poles made me invincible, and I felt no fear. I started passing people — a half dozen people at that late and spread-out stage of the race. One guy followed me for a couple of miles, and later told me he dug as deep as he could to keep up, and still faded. Of course I never set out to "beat" a handful of fellow mid-packers. But I have to say, rather than simply bettering something you're already good at, it's even more satisfying to marginally excel and something you're really bad at. So explains my main motivation for sticking with this running thing as long as I have.

I finished in 19:01, in a race where I seriously doubted my ability to stay in front of a 22-hour cutoff. And the course was even more difficult than I expected — 70 miles of nearly a hundred percent technical singletrack, with about 14,000 feet of climbing, on typical Northeast U.S. grades. The race was mostly filled with experienced locals and race veterans, and even then the finishing rate was fairly low — out of 130 starters, 85 finished. I had a few set-backs as you almost have to in a race that long, but overall I'm happy with how it went down. The scenery was stunning. I really enjoyed spending time with Tim, Rick, Loreen and other Eastern runners. I'll likely end up blabbing further in a full race report, but for now, in my sleepless haze, this is what I remember. Good stuff. 

Women of the Tour Divide

Group shot in Idyllwild before this year's Stagecoach 400. The were several past and future Tour Divide women in this race: Me, Eszter Horanyi, Tracey Petervary, Mary Collier, and Katherine Wallace. Photo by Craig Lassen. 

I've been what you might call a Divide racing superfan ever since I stumbled across online chatter about the Great Divide Race in late 2005. For me, the 2,500-mile GDR was a dream race: A cross-country bicycle tour, pedaling across the stunning landscapes of the Rocky Mountains, pushing personal boundaries, and living at the sharp edge of the human condition. I devoured every update from the 2006 event: That year, only six or seven people started in Roosville, Montana. Fixie Dave had his bike stolen, most quit in Montana, John Nobile had to drop out with injuries in Colorado, and Matt Lee was out front by himself for more than 1,000 miles before he became the sole finisher. It was a decidedly anticlimactic year in Divide racing — and I was hooked.

Later that summer, I laid out a loose three-year plan that ended in me lining up for the GDR in 2009. My then-boyfriend, Geoff Roes, shook his head at this grand delusion, but he got sucked into the dream himself. He ended up starting the 2008 Great Divide Race, and pedaled with the frontrunners until he dropped out in Colorado with extreme fatigue. John Nobile went on to win and set the record on the border-to-border route, which still stands. I was there when Geoff returned to Alaska completely shattered, and watched as it took him weeks to even get excited about running again, let alone biking. By then I already understood that Geoff was a much, much stronger athlete than me, and the Divide was too intense for him. That should have been enough to scare me away — and yet, the dream persisted.

I pursued that dream with single-minded focus even though it began to disrupt my career in journalism, and continued even as my relationship with Geoff broke apart and I woke up every morning of my training weeks with a strong desire to give up and go home. But I stuck with it, and the 2009 Tour Divide was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. From the fun touring in Montana with John Nobile, to setting out on my own in the desolation of Wyoming, to the intense emotional shifts of Colorado, to the soul-crushing mud and storms of New Mexico, I still feel like I experienced a second lifetime in those few short weeks. I wrote a book about it, and even still I continue to discover new insights and inner strength that I derived from that experience.

Every year, friends ask me if I'm going to return to the Tour Divide. The answer is: I want to, and I think about it often, but I want my head to be in the right place before I make a commitment of that magnitude. I'm not really interested in riding the Great Divide at a relaxed touring pace. Although I love bike touring, I'd rather use that amount of time to explore somewhere new, or try something new, like backcountry trekking in the Brooks Range. However, I remained intrigued about returning to the Divide to live on the sharp edge of the human condition — by moving as fast as I can. In 2009, I finished in 24 days, 7 hours, and 24 minutes. Even under similar (muddy) conditions and with similar fitness, I already see how better decisions could slice full days off of my time here and there. Everyone knows your first time down the Divide is a trial run, and after that you have a strong advantage with everything you've learned. Most racers also realize that the Divide is largely a contest of luck. But the Divide is one venue that plays to nearly all of my meager athletic strengths, and there's a fair chance I'll go back someday if the stars align. I get the sense that after this year, any record attempt is going to be a true test — if not impossible — for someone like me.

Right now, the 2012 roster features eleven women — eleven! It's going to be a exciting year to follow the race, which begins in Banff on Friday morning. I compiled a little bit of background for the awesome women of the 2012 Tour Divide:

Eszter Horanyi, 30, from Crested Butte, Colorado: I think Eszter is the woman to beat in this year's Tour Divide — and not just among women; all the boys will have to watch over their shoulders as well. She's a strong cyclist with an enviable combination of talent, experience, mental strength, and stamina. In 2009 she won the 24-Hour Solo Nationals and in 2011 she set the women's record in the 500-mile Colorado Trail Race. Her training rides for this year's Tour Divide included strong wins in the Arrowhead 135 and Stagecoach 400. Unless something goes wrong for Eszter, a sub-21-day finish is likely, and those who know her better would probably place that time around 18 or 19 days. My prediction: She's going to scorch it.

Tracey Petervary, 39, from Victor, Idaho: Another strong contender for the win. When it comes to adventure bikepacking, Tracey's resume is tough to beat. She's the only Tour Divide veteran among the women competing solo this year; she completed the 2009 race in 18 days and change as the stoker on a tandem with her husband, current men's record holder Jay Petervary. She's ridden a fat bike 1,000 miles on the Iditarod Trail from Knik to Nome, Alaska — twice! — and holds the women's record on both the Northern and Southern routes. Tracey said this year's Stagecoach 400 was her first truly solo multiday race, and that she learned a lot. She's a fierce competitor and I expect she'll be gunning for the front of the pack as long as she can.

Katherine Wallace, 40, from Phoenix, Arizona: I was fortunate to spend a little bit of time with Katherine after this year's Stagecoach 400. Katherine is a good-natured Kiwi with strong legs and humorously large water bottle cages on the fork of her Salsa Fargo (I'm fairly certain I saw 1.5-liter bottles stuffed in there.) I got the impression that she was going to take a conservative approach in this year's race with the goal of finishing, but she definitely has the motor to finish fast.

Tracy Burge, 51, from Clarksville Ohio: Tracy appeared in an article in the Dayton Daily News about being the "oldest" woman to race the Tour Divide, which she is riding in part to celebrate her 50th birthday. But Tracy actually won't be the oldest woman on the course this year; Jo Ann Burtard is 56. Tracy got her start in endurance sports in 1994, racing a marathon with her sisters. In 2008, she rode across Japan and Thailand, and from Greece to Spain during a round-the-world trek.

Sara Dallman, 43, from Wilmington, Ohio: I couldn't find much about Sara online. She seems to be a friend and training partner of Tracy's and is a bit of a runner herself. It's possible Tracy and Sara plan to ride together, although in an interview Tracy talked about riding alone.

Sarah Caylor, 42, from Caledon, Ontario: Sarah, a chef from Canada, is an endurance mountain bike racer who plans to put a couple of gears on her singlespeed for the Tour Divide (1x9). In her blog, Sarah mentioned she plans to ride about 140 miles a day, putting her on a 21-day pace. Sarah is a registered holistic nutritionist with a blog full of healthy energy food recipes. This makes me wonder if she has a specific plan for fueling on the Tour Divide. The GDMBR is the epitome of a food desert, illustrated well in the movie "Ride the Divide" when Adrian, a raw vegan, scours a gas station for food and leaves with a single jar of olives, reasoning that "they're pickled, which isn't the same as cooked." If your body isn't accustomed to processing nutrient-stripped junk and turning it into good energy, it can be difficult to function on the limited foods available on the Divide.

Michelle Dulieu, 41, from Rochester, New York: Michelle is an endurance road cyclist and randonneur who has finished the Cascade 1200. In 2007, Michelle set a women's record at Quadzilla, a 400-mile circumnavigation of New York's Finger Lakes. She's obviously strong at long distances, but it's unclear how much mountain biking experience she has. Although the Tour Divide is not a technical course, there are definitely some stretches where a little experience with rocks and mud can be an advantage. Still, randonneuring is just about the perfect background for an event like the Tour Divide.

Melissa Liebling, 33, from Tucson, Arizona: Melissa won the solo singlespeed division at this year's 24 Hours of Old Pueblo in Tucson, riding 241 miles in 24 hours and 28 minutes. Melissa is obviously a talented endurance rider, but it's not clear if she has any multiday experience.

Elena Massarenti, 37, from Valsesia, Italy: Elena is an adventure athlete who with a companion once paddled a canoe 1,600 kilometers along the Yukon River and trekked 1,000 kilometers across Patagonia. It appears Elena is planning to ride the Tour Divide with Marco Costa, a Tour Divide veteran who finished the 2011 event in 19 days.

Jo Ann Burtard, 56, from Santa Fe, New Mexico: Jo Ann has competed in the New Mexico Criterium Championships as well as a few mountain running races near Santa Fe. There are several road racing results online, but I couldn't find much else about Jo Ann.

Caroline Soong, 30, from Prescott, Arizona: Caroline won last year's Tour Divide, and this year will be racing it on a tandem with her boyfriend, Kurt Refsnider, the other winner of the 2011 race. Tracey and Jay Petervary currently hold the tandem record, and I'm among those who assumed it would stand forever — because honestly, who would want to challenge that? But Caroline and Kurt have a definite shot at the record if they can conquer the divorce-cycle stereotype.

There are 95 people total listed as starters for the 2012 Tour Divide. You can follow this year's race beginning Friday at trackleaders. com.

My first marathon

When we left the house at 5:20 a.m., it was already 73 degrees. We drove east toward the Devil Mountain, where the rising sun ignited a thin layer of fog with intense golden light. The sky was burning up right in front of me, and its red light was starting to creep down the hillsides. Beat flipped through a music playlist, searching for his favorite pre-race stoke anthem — "Walk" by the Foo Fighters. I made him stop on a Naked and Famous song that expressed my own feelings of trepidation — "Here it comes ... the unavoidable sun ... Where's my head? ... and what the hell have I done?"
 

For being the training race of a training race, the Diablo Marathon had unleashed an unexpected flood of anxiety. It was actually going to be my first race ever at the 26.2-mile distance. But in my mind, Diablo was a marathon only in name. The course had 8,000 feet of climbing, was comprised mainly of rugged and technical singletrack, summitted Mount Diablo twice, and promised six or more hours on harsh slopes exposed to relentless heat and sunlight. One day before the race, the temperature hit 96 degrees in Clayton, where the race started. Everything about the Diablo Marathon made the 26.2 part seem laughable and the rest like a purposeless beatdown. But I couldn't really ask for better training grounds.

Beat, crazy man that he is, opted for the 60K distance. His race started at 7 a.m. and mine started at 8:30, so I had an hour and a half to kill after the ultramarathoners left. I went to my car to slather my entire body in chamois butter, followed by multiple layers of SPF 50. I started reading my Kindle to kill time and accidentally dozed off, waking up about 15 minutes later when the car temperature had risen to at least 160 degrees. Have you ever taken a nap in a hot car with all the windows closed? I stumbled out of the vehicle in a flu-like haze, soaked in sweat, nausea, and what felt like a high fever. Fresh 85-degree air and several bottles full of water helped cool my core temperature just enough that I changed my mind about hiding in the shade until I had safely avoided starting this ill-advised race.

Mount Diablo is a prominent landmass in the Bay area, rising from near sea level to a summit elevation of 3,864 feet, with several sub-peaks along its broad ridges. I tend to laugh at the "Fake Mountain" jokes that non-locals make about this peak, but when you really get close to it, Mount Diablo is a rugged place comprised of loose, rocky slopes and abundant poison oak and rattlesnakes.  The steep trail to the summit often required a hands-on-knees march, and loose dirt made it all too easy to slip and fall, even while climbing.

The morning was already hot by the time the race started, but a stiff wind whisked along the slope. The wind carried air that was sometimes almost cool, and other times felt like a furnace blast — but the quick drying of sweat was a welcome relief. After I recovered from my nap-induced fever, I actually felt okay. In order to cope with the heat, I turned to an old trick I once used for long hikes — freezing my Camelbak bladder solid. I used a water bottle refilled with electrolyte drink as my main source of hydration, and whenever I felt particularly hot or dizzy, I took a sip of plain water from my ice-cold Camelbak. That strategy works wonders.

On our first trip to the peak, the race organizers required that we locate a secret message in order to prove we actually went all the way to the top. In retrospect, the location was obvious, but I arrived at the summit convinced the sign was going to be hidden somewhere. I wandered around the parking lot for several minutes until a road biker asked me what I was doing. "I'm looking for the top," I said. "Oh," he said. "You need to go up those stairs and the top is around the corner." As I said, in retrospect it was obvious — but the necessity of going around the visitor's center threw me off guard. That's just the kind of weird mountain that Diablo is. You can climb tough, rugged trails for two hours only to arrive at a parking lot, where you must use stairs to reach the proper summit. I was annoyed by how long it took me to find it, but I do think random scavenger hunts would add an interesting element to trail racing.

The wind wreaked havoc on the course markings, blowing ribbons off trees and turning arrow signs in opposite directions. I reached a few confusing intersections that I simply couldn't figure out, so I just stood there waiting for the next runner to catch me so we could combine our heat-addled problem-solving skills. At one point there were six of us standing at a three-way intersection with ribbons going off in every direction. According to Beat this turn was obvious, but between the six of us — several of whom had printed out course maps — we just couldn't figure it out. One guy seemed certain of the general direction of the aid station and we agreed to follow his lead — figuring that if all six of us went off course, at least we were in this together. It turned out to be the right direction, but the resulting paranoia led to me spending way too much time scanning the trees for pink ribbons, and not enough time watching the trail. This, in turn, led to two big falls — one that was almost a full header, causing me to eat a fair helping of dirt and toss my water bottle twenty feet off the trail beside a healthy batch of poison oak. Luckily I emerged from these falls mostly unscathed except for a few scratches and a goose-egg bruise on my right knee. Later, during the steep descent from the north peak, I fell on my butt three separate times while baby-stepping down the loose, gravelly trail. But I consider it a personal victory that I only fell five times — such was the technical difficulty of the Diablo Marathon.

The crux of the race turned out to be an unmarked intersection about four miles from the finish. The dirt road we had been descending forked in two directions after a gate that indicated private property, and before the gate were two trails — one with a trail sign and went up the mountain, and another unmarked path that looked like a fading deer trail. I wandered around for about five minutes, traveling a short distance down each spur and finding no sign of ribbons anywhere. I went back to the gate a fumed for a bit, wondering if I should just take the main road and hope it lead to civilization if not the race finish, when a 60K racer named Kermit caught up to me. Kermit was a Diablo veteran, having completed several distances on the same general course. He also had a map, and even he couldn't quite discern which way to go. We settled on the deer trail and sure enough found a pink ribbon about a quarter mile later. Kermit was a faster runner than me, but I didn't want to let him out of my sight. I managed to shadow him for two and a half miles, which is probably the longest I've ever sustained a downhill pace that I didn't quite feel comfortable with. But, sure enough, when the trail started trending upward again, Kermit pulled away. I was on my own in a maze of sporadic ribbons.

My GPS said I had traveled 26.1 miles when I reached another intersection. The arrow sign had blown over but pointed distinctively to the left, and all of the pink ribbons went that way. When I looked down the dirt road, I could not see any ribbons. I figured I had to be really close to the finish, but GPS watches can be wrong, course distances vary, and I had traveled a small amount of extra mileage. I turned left and soon began climbing up a steep slope.

The trail just kept on climbing. I was convinced this couldn't be right, but there were still pink ribbons, and in trail racing, you don't question the ribbons. When my GPS registered 27 miles I was at nearly 1,500 feet elevation, which didn't seem right at all given the race finish was closer to 500 feet. A quarter mile later I reached a ridge and finally understood where I was — right back where I had started, climbing Mount Diablo. I idiotically managed to turn off course right at the very end — and consequently beginning — which is why there were still ribbons and signs on the trail.

Since I had already botched the race, I briefly considered just running another mile and half up the trail to register a solid 50K. But I knew I'd have to climb another 1,000 feet in the process, plus I was already out of water and nearly out of electrolyte drink. So I turned around, laughing at myself because out of all of the confusing intersections, this mistake really was my fault.

Sure enough, the finish was less than a quarter mile from my wrong turn. I finished the race with 28.5 miles and 8,300 feet of climbing. As I was explaining to Kermit why I came in more than a half hour after him even though he last saw me just a mile from the finish, the race director walked up and handed me this coaster. Despite all I was actually the first woman to finish the marathon distance, and the fifth overall of 18 finishers (probably about 20-22 starters. There were definitely a few drops.) Although Strava placed my marathon finishing time at 6:32, my actual finishing time was 6:58. A seven-hour marathon. I think Pearl Izumi would agree that's a pillar of excellence. Beat finished the 60K in 9:31, coming in sixth.

I am happy with how it went, because I managed all of these challenges that are really difficult for me — heat, technical descending, feeling horribly lost — quite well. I kept a solid but sustainable pace so I didn't screw up my taper for the big test next weekend. I ended up fueling solely on Clif Shot Bloks and the mysterious pink electrolyte drink. My fueling strategy for supported (and unsupported) races is usually just to pick the first thing that looks good to me and stick with it for the duration of the race. The surprise of what food that might be is a fun bonus, but as an actual fueling technique, it seems to work well for me. And I only fell five times! Oh, and I won the race. Even though it was a small race, that was a nice reward for the brutal beatdown of the Devil Mountain.